


Leaves of Grass

by clio_jlh



Category: Rent
Genre: Character of Color, Chromatic Character, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Male Character, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Male Character of Color, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Canon, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-14
Updated: 2005-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/pseuds/clio_jlh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark resolves to stop hiding in his work, but it's through that work that he finds the connection he'd been looking for all along.  Set in the spring and summer immediately following the end of the play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaves of Grass

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago I saw the show again with [](http://folk.livejournal.com/profile)[**folk**](http://folk.livejournal.com/) who wanted to see it before the movie came out. During the final scene, Mark was standing at the foot of Mimi's "bed" and Collins at the head and their eyes met and I suddenly thought, _WOW_. This is the result, from a devoted Collins/Angel lover. Many thanks to [](http://folk.livejournal.com/profile)[**folk**](http://folk.livejournal.com/), and to [](http://ladyjaida.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyjaida**](http://ladyjaida.livejournal.com/) for her enthusiasm and her awesome beta.

Do I contradict myself?   
Very well then I contradict myself,   
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)  
—Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

So I realize, after this Christmas, after this year, that I really do need to get out more.

I start by seeing Roger's band play out whenever possible, as where Roger goes, girls follow and that is all to the good for me since Roger ain't exactly out looking. But my heart isn't in it, and this is a new thing.

Luckily the last girl I had for any length of time was some girl, so I call her up to see how I might be off my game.

"I don't know, Mark," Maureen says. There is a commotion in the background, and Maureen shrieks, "Fucker!" very loudly at someone or other, but also at me. "Maybe you just aren't that interested in girls anymore."

"So you think that the specific gravity of our relationship was such that in its aftermath we both became homosexuals?"

"It's a theory."

"But you were bi to begin with."

"So were you."

"But you acted on it the entire time we were dating."

"Sweetie, now you're talking about monogamy, not sexuality," she says with a laugh.

I hum in agreement but say nothing.

"So," she asks in her needling way, taking off the Maureen-the-caring-friend mask and putting on the Maureen-the-girl-on-the-make mask faster than you can say ker-ching, "are you going to write a big part in the movie for me?"

"It's getting workshopped," I point out, surely for the 350th time, "so it was already written when I sent it to them."

"But there will be a part, won't there?" she asks again.

"Of course, Maureen," I reply, and hang up.

* * *

The apartment is back to being empty. Mimi is giving rehab another try and Collins is as elusive as ever so it's just Roger and me cooking ramen noodle and cheap packaged miso from the Asian market above the TickTock Diner.

"Still batting zero, Cohen?" Roger asks between slurps.

"Maureen thinks I'm gay," I reply.

Roger gives me a look. "Since when has Maureen been able to distinguish her life from anyone else's?"

I shrug. Not asking questions is the best way to get Roger to answer them.

"Well," he says, "it's not like you've never been with a guy."

"Long time ago," I say, brushing a roach from the cord of the hot plate.

"Maybe it goes in cycles. I dunno, I'm not the bi one here."

"Except that one time."

"I was just pissed because you and Collins were getting so much play and I wasn't."

"Oh no," I say in mock horror, "the rock star might go to a party and _not get laid!_"

"Fuck you," Roger says. "And I did get laid that night."

"But you were worried."

"So, then, maybe you should see what happens with guys now."

I nod. "What does she have to say for herself?" I ask, seeing that he's pulling out a postcard.

"She hates it. She loves it. She wants to know my favorite color so she can make me a sweater."

"Busy hands," I say. Roger made me a striped scarf when he was in rehab. I started wearing it all the time as a token that our luck was going to change, and then it just became habit. Now I'm Guy with Scarf, even though I'm also Guy with Glasses and Plays with Camera so it could be time to bring the scarf out only on special occasions.

"Speaking of which," Roger says, "I need to get to practice. You writing tonight?"

"Yeah. They sent a bunch of pre-workshop 'exercises'."

He nods, getting up to put our bowls in the sink. "Ew, what is that in the drain?" he asks.

I walk up behind him. "I don't know. If it's dead, maybe we can put it in the ramen tomorrow night."

* * *

Late that night, Collins shows up to crash. Early spring has put a bit of color back on those cheeks and he doesn't seem as bewildered as he had been this fall, but he's still about half there. Maureen used to say that Collins, Roger and I were the Unholy Trinity, that Roger clearly had a "Jesus thing" while Collins was the Holy Ghost. (She'd follow this up by saying that it was a good thing she had a father complex before screwing my lights out in the back bedroom.) Lately, though, Collins is less Holy Spirit than just plain old Ghost. I look down at the letter about housing and think for a moment, and then I say, "Come to Utah."

Collins looks at me blankly. "What?"

"Come to Utah with me. It will be perfect. You can bring books with you and sit in the room and read or wander around the grounds and philosophize, get all those notes into a book or a paper or something."

"They let you do that?"

"It's Sundance, not Yaddo. They're not going to check my room, and besides, you can get a double. We can say you're my muse or something."

Collins sits and thinks. "I would like to get this down on paper while I can," he says.

I grin. "Who wants to be in New York in the summer anyway?" I point out.

"Roger?"

I shake my head. "Tour is set," I say.

"Where are they getting a van?"

"Benny maybe?" I ask, shrugging my shoulders.

"He certainly owes someone something. Mimi?"

"Going out on tour, when they spring her. And Joanne and Maureen will be in San Francisco while Joanne consults on that housing rights case."

Collins sips on his green tea. I hold my breath, waiting; this has suddenly become very important to me.

Finally he says, "Nice weather out there. What should I bring?" He turns to me and smiles.

I exhale, relieved. This will be perfect—some time away is exactly what he needs, what we both need.

* * *

A week later three boxes shipped from Boston and labeled "Sonic Bubblegum" appear in the loft. Seems like any idiot with access to a CD press can start a label these days.

Roger is already packed, his gear in the corner. The band leaves tomorrow morning for Albany; they'll take the rust belt route out to Chicago, turn south and head to New Orleans, east to Miami, then back up along the Atlantic to home. Five weeks of grueling touring and bunking with friends of the band or lacking that, the van, with Mimi and another band girlfriend as roadies-slash-go-go dancers. I'll be four days behind him, heading out to Utah, but Collins and I will meet up with the band at their final date in Philly. We even found two NYU students idiot enough to sublet the place for the month we'll be gone, which is money found since we don't pay a dime to live here ourselves.

"Cover looks good," Roger says.

"You say that because you're on it," I point out.

"Pretty-boy front men have to sell records as well as tickets," Roger says. "So, Collins is really going out to Utah with you?"

"Yeah," I reply. "It's like, the summer no one is in New York."

"Think that will be good for you?" he asks, still sorting through the cds.

I wince. "I don't know why it wouldn't be."

Roger shrugs. "You can't save him, you know. You couldn't even save me."

"No, but I kept your head above water until someone else came along to convince you that it was worth the effort to save yourself."

This time, he looks up at me, and we're silent for a long moment. I swear I can see the wheels turning in his head.

"I can do that for him, too," I add.

Roger nods. "Just, you're there to work."

"He'll have work, too. We'll keep each other disciplined." I put my hand on his shoulder. "I've thought it through. It's good."

Roger cocks his head, which we both know means, "Yeah, I've heard that one before." Which he has, when I took that stupid TV job, or when Maureen moved into the apartment. Then he thrusts a cd into my hand. "Here, play this in your room in Utah. Maybe we'll get on someone's soundtrack."

* * *

Two days later, after Roger's band leaves, another postcard arrives from Mimi. I assume she just misjudged the US Mail, until I see that it is addressed to me. On the front is a film still from _Shane_, of Alan Ladd on his horse in full iconic cowboy regalia.

> M
> 
> Heard you are looking at boys now. Heard you are taking Collins to the country. Open your eyes. Life is for the living.
> 
> I'm never knitting again.
> 
> M

I have no idea what this means, but the picture is cool, so I tuck it into my bag for Sundance.

* * *

The day before I leave, Joanne takes me out to an expense account lunch at China Grill. I'm not sure how she's writing this off, but hey, if the ACLU wants to buy me some fried spinach who am I to complain?

"So. Boys."

Well, Joanne is nothing if not direct. "Word travels fast," I say, reaching for the rice.

"Collins?"

I look up, nearly dropping the platter. "What?"

She scowls. "Collins is gay."

"Right."

"And single."

"Sadly, yes."

"And a bit lost."

"True."

"And attractive."

"What?" I ask, shocked.

"Hey, just because I'm a big doc-wearing dyke doesn't mean I can't appreciate that the brotha is hot," she points out, her voice suddenly dropping into some kind of street cadence that I've never heard her use before, which throws me.

"Okay, as a statement of fact, Collins is an attractive man."

"And you are inviting him to share a room and a bed with you for four weeks in the middle of nowhere Wyoming."

"Utah," I say, correcting her.

"Whatever, some big square state," she says, dismissing me with a wave of her chopsticks. "Anyway, you're taking him to Robert Redford's film school summer camp."

"Yes . . . " I reply, not liking where this is going.

"And this has nothing to do with your wanting to date boys now?" she asks.

Shit. "The events are merely concurrent. There is no cause and effect," I say, stalling with as many big words as I can still remember from the SAT prep class. Then, a ray of light—or even better, something Collins explained to me once. "You're using _post hoc ergo propter hoc_ reasoning, Joanne, and you know that's faulty." I try not to look too pleased with myself; I don't want to piss her off, just get her to shut up.

She squints at me, then finally relents. "All right. But take care."

"Of course," I say, trying to sound more cavalier than I suddenly feel.

* * *

Three weeks in out of four, and things are going even better than I'd hoped. Workshop is kicking my ass, but in a good way; I don't think I've ever worked with such focus before. I am definitely going to have a filmable script when I leave here, and the skills to write another one.

Collins is working his ass off, too. He's taking long walks every day and looks healthier than I've ever seen him. The article has become a book proposal; my philosopher is on fire and if I didn't know better I'd say he was manic. It's as though everything we'd been working for these past years is suddenly, magnificently coalescing.

Being consistently fed, of course, helps a great deal.

"I'm going to miss this," I say. We're lying on the double bed, facing each other, heads leaning on hands.

"The fresh air? The sunshine? The ability to do nothing but work and not have to worry about scrounging up food?" Collins smiles, something he's been doing more of lately.

"Well, that," I begin, "but really the conversations with you, here." I look down at the sheet, outlining a large yellow rose with my forefinger. "I've never really talked about my work like this before. You know, other than colleagues."

"Neither have I," Collins says, "but it's helped, a lot. Helped the work that is," he adds quickly.

"Yes, exactly," I agree, looking back up at him. "The work, it's like a totally different perspective."

"We should keep this up when we go back," he suggests. "These conversations. I'll be around the apartment more anyway, working."

"I'd like that," I reply, smiling a little.

"So I gather you and Maureen never talked about your work?"

"Well, you know, me and Maureen didn't do much talking. And what was I working on then anyway, except her stuff."

He nods. "Well, that's Maureen."

Quietly, I ask, "Angel?"

Collins smiles, the saddest smile ever. "Angel. We didn't talk about this, not openly. Angel preferred doing over talking. We . . . we _lived_, you know? But I wouldn't be writing this now if not for him."

We sit silently for a moment, and then I say, "Well, I'm honored, that you trust me with your work."

"Likewise. What's more personal than your work?"

I light up. "That's it exactly! Sharing your work with someone you know is so . . . "

"Intimate," Collins says, looking into my eyes.

I swallow hard. "Yes, intimate."

"It's like sharing . . . "

"A part of yourself," I finish, though suddenly I can scarcely breathe.

"Part of yourself, that's right," he agrees in a whisper, and his hand moves on top of mine, on the sheet.

"Are we still talking about work?" I ask. I don't remember anyone moving, but our heads are closer than they were.

"I don't think so," Collins says.

Then our lips meet, and it's overwhelming, and I think _Finally!_ and _Oh my god_ and _This is a bad idea but fuck if I care_ and _His lips are amazing_ and I remember in a rush what it's like to kiss a man, all power and bristles and the goatee tickling my cheek and nose. My hand is burning under his, and I want to reach up and pull him closer but I can't without letting go and I don't want to do that.

We pull back, pressing our foreheads together and gasping. "Fuck, what _was_ that," he asks.

"I don't know," I reply, and I think, _Please, don't let me fuck this up_ though I'm sure there is no way in hell that I won't.

"I need to—we should go to sleep now," he says, pulling away from me a little.

I nod, trying not to look disappointed, like I kiss one of my best friends every day, no biggie. "Yeah, um, it's late. I have an early call." I start to pull my hand out from under his but he holds on to it, pulling it up to his mouth and placing a kiss on my palm. I look up from our clasped hands to his face, but it's unreadable, his eyes closed, his whole body starting to close itself off from me. He lets my hand go.

"Good night, Mark," he says, almost as though nothing had happened. He turns away from me, turning out the bedside light.

"Good night, Collins," I reply. I sit, staring at the back of his head for a moment, then I turn around, taking my glasses off and placing them on the windowsill. I stare blurrily at the moon and stars for a long time before falling asleep.

* * *

The next five days Collins behaves as though that kiss never happened, and I follow his lead. We still talk about our work at night, but take care not to let the conversation wander back into those dangerous, personal waters. Which is really fine, I tell myself; there is no way that it could have been anything other than the adult version of a camp romance, and I'm watching those disintegrate all around me as the Sundance hookups resolve themselves in the last days of the workshop. Ah, humanity. This is probably why I've been celibate since Maureen. Sex is messy, more messy than I can afford.

Our last day in Utah is a free day. No workshops, just a big farewell dinner that night with the man himself, Redford, though he has been in and out of everyone's sessions at random intervals throughout the four weeks. Collins hops out of breakfast early, saying he had to take care of something but assuring me that he would meet me back in the room by eleven so we could spend this day together.

But when I get to the room, there is no Collins, only a note. Well, not a note; more of a map of Sundance, with a red line leading up one of the trails to a star marked, "Noon!"

The hike isn't strenuous, but it is a good forty-five minutes long, and it is summer, so when I emerge from the brush to see a bend in the river, a little inlet just made for swimming in, I am relieved. "Collins?" I call out.

"Over here," he replies. I follow the sound of his voice to where he sits with his feet in the water, a bag next to him. "I brought lunch, and towels."

I feel suddenly shy, probably as much from my hopelessly pale scrawniness as from the kiss we'd shared not a week ago. "Collins, I don't have a suit."

"So what?" he says. He stands and whips off his clothing, then jumps into the water. "Water's great!" he shouts.

I relent, taking off my clothes and laying my glasses in my sneaker, then making a shallow dive into the river. I come up about a foot away from where Collins is treading water, watching me. "Beautiful," I say, and it is, picturesque almost to a cliché, with a few trees filtering the sunlight onto the water, and nothing but grassland and blue sky beyond. I lean back, floating on my back for a second, before feeling a little self-conscious about my nudity and ducking back under the water.

"Come here," Collins says.

"What?" I ask, swimming over. He reaches out his arms and pulls me close, then kisses me firmly. I'm surprised and my arms fling out to wrap around his back, though I'm aware of not wanting to drag us under water. But the eggbeater kick is pretty tough when you are so close to the other person, and our legs are getting entangled, too.

"I'm sorry about the other night," he says, when he pulls back. "I just needed some time to think."

"This wasn't planned," I say. "I didn't invite you to Utah to seduce you." It's so important that he understand this.

"Oh, I know," he says. "It's just, Angel—"

"God, I'm sorry!" I say, pulling away a little and putting my hand to my face. "If it's too soon, don't worry about—"

"No," he says, forcefully, reaching out and pulling my hand back down. "Nothing of the sort. Angel doesn't want me moping around, wearing black for a year to mourn him. He wants me to live. But after him, I couldn't go back to my old life and I wasn't sure of the way forward." He leans his shoulders back just a little, looking up at the blue sky. "You helped with that."

"Me?" I ask.

He looks back over at me. "You. Talking to you, being here, I worked it out. I know where I'm headed now, and I thank you for that." He swims sideways a little, so I turn in the water, my eyes following him. "But that's not why I kissed you."

"No?"

He dips under the water for a moment and comes back up. "You know, I had a crush on you, when we first met."

"Me?" I squeak.

"But by the time I had decided to ask you out, roommate or no, you were with Maureen, and you both were happy so that was fine; I got over it. And then I went to Boston. But when I found out you'd broke up, I thought, well, it's worth another try, see what happens."

"You came back for Christmas. And met Angel."

"You led me to him, in a way. I suppose I should thank you for that, too." He treads water for a moment. "It wasn't time for us yet."

"Wasn't time for us?" I ask.

"You couldn't see past Roger, past Maureen."

I remember, suddenly, Mimi's postcard. "My eyes are open now. Is it time for us?" I ask, swimming closer to him.

"I hope so," he says.

I pull him into my arms and kiss him, and our legs entangle as we pull closer. After a while he pulls away and says, "We should get out of the water."

"Um . . . "

He laughs. "If anyone who comes by can't handle two naked, aroused men sitting on the banks of a river eating, then fuck 'em. Besides, I don't have any condoms. Do you?"

"No. Unplanned, remember?"

We climb up onto the bank and eat the sandwiches Collins brought, and I lie back on the grass and stare at the clouds and listen to him read Whitman and I think, I could get used to this.

* * *

The show in Philly is at a club called Khyber Pass, which is confusing, as it has the same name as the Afghan restaurant on St. Mark's where Angel liked to go late at night and sit in one of the window tables, on the pillows, and wait for the nightly brawl at the community center across the street. Collins remembers this story as we wait around outside, and I know that Angel will always be there, in his heart, but that's okay because I loved him, too.

It's a nice enough club, though the band is pissy because they were told they'd be playing at ten only to be bumped to nine by some other band with more local support.

"Fucking booker," Roger says.

Still, they put on a good show, loose and tight in all the right places, with Mimi and the bass player's girlfriend dancing on stage. Joanne and Maureen are back from the west coast and Benny even shows up. It's the last show of the tour and the band looks very glad to be almost home.

Collins and I don't say anything, but everyone knows just the same; I guess that's what happens when you stand around in a room of only twenty people and hold someone's hand and generally refuse to leave their side. I had been a little worried, on the plane, that once we left Utah we would realize that we had made some big mistake, that what worked in the country wouldn't play in the city, but so far so good.

Roger comes by after his set is over. Collins has wandered off to the bathroom or more beers or something. "Took you guys long enough," he says.

"Shut up," I reply.

"Are you sure?" he asks me.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "I've thought it through. It's good."

Roger grins, pulling me into some kind of manly hug. Collins returns not with beer but with shots for the three of us, and Roger hugs him, too, whispering something that is clearly not for my ears, and they laugh. Collins raises his glass.

"To absent friends," he toasts, and we drink.

Mimi comes up, sliding under Roger's arm, and says, "I see you got my postcard."

"Is this whole night going to be people telling me how blind I was?" I ask.

"Pretty much," says Maureen from behind me.

I narrow my eyes at her, as she's one to talk, but it isn't that important any more anyway. Collins takes my hand again, kissing my forehead, and I think, well, I know _now_, and that's what matters.


End file.
